


Day 16: Feet

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [16]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Boot Worship, Foot Fetish, Gender-neutral Reader, Other, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27245344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Your relationship with Ren Suzugamori is based around... pretty much just one thing.
Relationships: Suzugamori Ren/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Day 16: Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I was really tempted to just make the summary on this one "Dead Dove Do Not Eat".
> 
> Okay look, I'm gonna just be blunt with this one and say, Read The Tags, it is what it fucking is, if you don't like it, just don't fucking read it or make fun of it or spend any time thinking about it, alright. I know how people are with these specific kinks and I'm not here for jokes or memes. I'm here to have a good fucking time.
> 
> Minor additional warning for a single use of the word "slut" in Reader's narration if that's a problem for anyone.

“You have _no_ idea,” Ren Suzugamori says, as he sprawls out on your sofa like a haughty, overentitled cat, “how tiring it is running a whole Branch. I had to stand around looking important _all day_. In _this_ weather.”

It _is_ over thirty degrees, and has been most of the week, but that’s hardly the main reason you’re feeling so hot and clammy right now.

“My feet get _sooo_ sweaty in these boots, as well… you don’t mind though, right?”

It’s not really a question — but then, you weren’t really planning on disagreeing anyway. You sink slowly to your knees, something that never gets any less spine-tingling no matter how familiar it’s becoming, and Ren straightens up, watching your movements with all the sharply focused intensity of a predator stalking its prey. Fingers curling into your quivering palms, your rest your hands stiffly on your folded knees as he looks you up and down, but there’s no nod of approval, no permission to begin — only _expectation_ as he leans back against a cushion and begins to idly pick at his nails.

You’re in your place, and he’s in his; there’s nothing more to be said.

You start with a kiss, pressing your lips to the toe of his right boot. The black leather is still warm from the sunlight, and you drink in the smell of it as you kiss again, this time allowing yourself to use your tongue as well, dragging it reverently up the length of his foot. The scent is rich and heady, the kind of smell you could get drunk off, the leather sleek and polished as if it was made specifically to have your lips against it. Maybe it _was_. You can’t put it past him.

The boots he’s wearing today only have about an inch worth of heel, but it’s more than enough to tighten your chest and leave your breath short as you explore the curves and stitches with your tongue. Beginning each long, lavish lick at the toe and moving up towards his heel, again and again, you let your eyes drift shut and map their shape with your dutiful mouth alone; the harsh, bitter rubber of the thick soles, the sweet earthiness of the leather, the sudden sharpness of hot metal as you venture further and meet the row of buckles leading up the side of his calf.

Every fiber of your body aches for you to lean forward, to press your face and chest and heart against them, against _him_ , get as close as you can so you can truly, completely bask in their radiance.

You might be getting a little carried away already.

In your defense, it’s hard not to, especially when he makes no secret of the fact that he’s playing right into your attraction, poking at your weak spots; it’s not like he started wearing boots because of you, he always has, but you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed his wardrobe suddenly expanding. Every pair is unique, and just when you think you’ve gotten to know them, he starts wearing new ones, and then somehow he ends up in your home, on your sofa, in thirty-five degree heat, and then you’ve got sweat running down the back of your neck for a hundred different reasons and hands so shaky with exhilaration and nerves that you can barely undo his buckles.

The entire time, he just _watches_ , drifting lazily between feigned disinterest and intent, dangerous attraction, his own tongue teasing hungrily between his teeth as you ease down the zipper. He does, to his credit, extend his leg and straighten his foot to make it easier for you to remove the boot; he has _some_ mercy in him, apparently — or, more likely, he’s just more interested in the next part.

As the boot slips from his foot, you cradle it against your chest, as if it were a precious gift, as if it could transmit the longing, insistent beating of your heart to him.

Not that he doesn’t already know the effect he’s having, of course; it’s no doubt clear in your every movement to such an instinctual, predatory gaze as his, right down to the way you hook your finger into his sock and pull it off. _Practiced_. It’s _obvious_ you’re a slut for this, and maybe you should feel some sense of shame at that, but Ren’s own air of casual confidence makes it impossible somehow. There’s no disgust in the way he looks at you; his eyes sparkle, as they always do, with an alluring blend of satisfaction and curiosity.

His feet are as well taken care of as his outfit, although that’s no surprise — after all, you take pride in your work, right down to the deep red polish you applied to his pedicured nails. Sometimes, he jokes about _all this_ becoming your full-time job, and you quietly feel like you wouldn’t even be opposed to the idea, and even more quietly wonder if it’s even a joke or not. Serving him like this at all is enough of an honor, but the idea of _more_ is almost too much to imagine. If you weren’t already on your knees, you’d have trouble standing with the jellylike tension flooding your limbs.

You chance a peek up at him. He’s watching you closely, eyes narrowed, the corners of his lips curled into a smirk, and beneath that gaze you somehow feel both very small and very important.

“Well?” he purrs, and the sound cuts straight to your bones like a burning knife.

Tenderly, like the object of worship that it is, you cradle his foot in your hands, rubbing the soft skin in gentle circles with your thumbs. He wasn’t lying; his skin is damp and sticky with sweat after hours of being on his feet in the sweltering sun, and you can smell him even before your lips descend to meet it.

It doesn’t put you off — it never does. There’s an alluring intensity to it, the acidic scent burying itself in your nostrils as you gently lift his foot enough to nuzzle your face into his arch. A low moan escapes you, fueled by the heat racing over your own skin like a wildfire as you trace his sharply defined curves with your tongue, and you don’t even try to hide it. Slightly more embarrassing is the wet sound of your tongue against him as you lick salty stripes, again and again, down the long length of his sole, but even _that_ just drives your pulse to race faster still, drives you to give even more of your heart and soul and _dignity_ to him as you revel in the silkiness of his skin against yours.

Soon, the tip of your tongue finds his toes, and slips eagerly between them, curling around the prominent shape of their bones and seeking out the most minute differences in the texture of his soft, pampered skin. You bury yourself entirely in the power of his taste and scent, inhaling the rich, moist smell as deeply as you can, dragging your nose down the length of his foot one more time. Then, wrapping your tongue around it luxuriously, you suck his largest toe into your mouth.

Above you, he hums quietly, evidently pleased, and it spurs you like a crop against your back, a furiously tight knot of desire in your chest.

Drool trickles down your chin as you work your tongue between his slim, perfect toes, hollowing your cheeks to suck heavily on the one in your mouth, savoring the sweet tang of his sweat and the brush of his skin against your sensitive lips. A _hunger_ burns through your body, a need to taste as much of him as you can, and it pools between your legs, welling up and spreading through your skin, tinting it red — but you ignore it, as you always do, instead moving onto his next toe, and the next in turn, because _this_ isn’t about _that_ , it’s about _you_ , and _him_ , and the freedom he grants you to be where you belong. Every swirl and flick of your tongue as it circles his nails, every muffled, breathy whimper that slips uncontrolled from the corner of your lips, every gulping swallow of sweat and saliva is an act of reverence, worship, devotion to _this_ , the lowest part of him — and yet, you think, the most befitting of your love.

You glance up at him again, and you can almost see, through his eyes, yourself; panting and shivering and flushed, heaving with every shaky breath, your eyes wide and dark and desperate and adoring of everything that he is, and everything that he offers you.

By the time your lips finally break away from Ren’s skin, his smallest toe slipping from your mouth with a gentle ‘pop’ and stretching a thin, shining trail of saliva between the two of you, you’re almost entirely out of breath. 

All at once, the world around you exists again, and you’re suddenly aware of the rough fibers of carpet under your knees, the steady tick of the clock on your mantle — and the cotton wool filter that falls over all of it as your dizzied, overwhelmed brain forces you to catch your breath. The vibrant, musky scent of his day lingers on your lips as you slip sideways, resting on your thigh and taking the weight off your shins and knees. You’re exhausted, and from _this_ ; as you should be. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be putting enough effort in.

As your breathing starts to level out, he reaches down and pats you, ruffling your hair affectionately, and you practically collapse against his leg.

“I’ll give you a minute,” he says, a smug, playful grin still plastered across his lips, “but don’t get too relaxed just yet.”

His other heel, still fully clad in its leather finery, taps pointedly against the floor, and your chest swells at the reminder of your duty even as you nuzzle tiredly into his thigh.

“Remember, you’re only half finished~”

**Author's Note:**

> I finally had the balls to write this kink and it feels SO goddamn lacking honestly I am not happy but. Onward. Such is the nature of challenges like this, and also of posting straight-up first drafts.
> 
> Twitter: You Know By Now. Some of them I don't really wanna put it aaaaaaaaa


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